#Mastering Mold Removal

[murderbot]

this is a new post being made for ammar @ammarfamily2 as i checked the post i had been using and it has now been flagged as "potentially mature content". out of concern for this possibly suppressing pings, i have made this one instead.

the below text is copy pasted from the previous

samah’s original campaign and account are shared by 90-ghost, but it was shut down as her organiser’s bank account was deactivated

proof samah asked me to use my paypal / ko-fi account here

unfortunately ammar needs some medication to make sure he is well after the operation he had 3 days ago - namely, he needs painkillers and antibiotics

samah has told me that it is going to cost $1263 for his post-surgery care - because she will have to pay 20% fees to get this money to her, i have it up as $1600.

his condition without having immediately received the post-surgery medication already worsened enough that he had to return to intensive care last night

in 3 days he has had surgery, left the hospital, and failed to receive the medication needed to keep him well after the surgery, then became ill enough to go back to the hospital.

we truly do not have enough time and i worry for him, please let's do what we can for him

$766 / $1600

let me know for ping removal

@shikse @gh4ul @sundung @fandom-master-mind @aconstantallegory

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[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #45

Mine, Mine, MINE!

Imagine this….

I know Damian is raised in an environment where he is treated as a prince, the only grandson, the heir. Sure those privileges may come in the price of ripping his innocence and childhood away from a very young age. In the end he got everything he  ever wanted nor needed. A single word from him and all gather around to get what he needed.

But there will be a day where there is something you cannot get no matter your demands or commands.

….

By the time Damian could form full sentences, he had learned the art of taking. To demand was his birthright; to receive was merely the universe setting itself right. If another child had a toy, Damian wanted it. If a servant carried a blade of exceptional craftsmanship, it belonged in his collection. Even as a young boy, his chambers were overflowing with silken robes, masterfully forged weapons, and rare treasures pilfered from across the world.

His first words had been "Mine." He was greedy from the cradle, claiming everything within reach with an iron will and a clenched fist. As an infant, a single furrow of his brow or a half-formed cry summoned an entire team of wet nurses, attendants, and servants who scrambled to appease him, terrified of drawing the ire of the Demon’s heir. His crib was adorned with silk imported from lands that no longer existed, and gold-threaded blankets were replaced the moment they became even slightly soiled.

When he took his first steps, the world shifted to accommodate him. Marble floors were polished before his feet touched them, and his path was lined with offerings—daggers forged by masters, scrolls of ancient knowledge, carved figurines from forgotten civilizations. Every item he glanced at was quietly removed from its place and added to his collection, regardless of its original owner. He collected without remorse, hoarded without gratitude. His chambers grew into miniature treasure vaults, filled with relics and riches that served no purpose beyond feeding his insatiable desire to own.

Neither Talia nor Ra’s al Ghul discouraged his possessiveness. To them, it was simply a symptom of his lineage. The blood of conquerors and kings ran in his veins, and if he took, it was only because he was destined to. The League of Assassins reinforced this belief with every passing day. He was not taught humility or restraint—only power, precision, and domination. He was forged to rule, molded to believe that the world was his birthright.

But then there was Danyal.

His twin, born under the same stars, shaped from the same blood, yet utterly alien in his quiet nature. Danyal never demanded, never claimed, never expected. While Damian amassed trinkets and trophies with the entitlement of a young emperor, Danyal existed in the spaces left behind—content with simplicity, with little, with the unremarkable. When Damian snatched one of his brother’s few meager toys and added it to his already overflowing pile, Danyal gave no protest. He simply let it go, his eyes soft, his hands uncurled, his expression free of malice or resentment.

To Damian, this was a maddening contradiction. They were both of noble blood. They were descendants of kings, warriors, legends. Danyal should have yearned for greatness, fought for it. But instead, he bowed his head, stepped aside, and surrendered without a sound. Damian saw weakness. He saw foolishness.

When Danyal died on a mission gone wrong, Damian did not weep. His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not stray from the trail of blood that marked the last place his twin had stood. The League moved on without pause, the death barely a footnote in their endless ledger of sacrifice. There was no funeral pyre, no rites or remembrance. The corpse was retrieved, cataloged, and discarded like a failed weapon. Damian told himself it was fate, a destiny trimming the weak from their bloodline.

Danyal had never fought for more. He had never claimed what was owed to him. In Damian’s mind, that made him unworthy. A noble soul without the teeth to defend its title. A flickering candle smothered by the wind. And so Damian forced himself to move on. He trained harder, sharper, faster. He swallowed whatever little grief he has and reforged it into ambition.

At ten years old, when he was finally sent to Gotham, he carried himself like a young prince returning to his rightful throne. He arrived at his father’s doorstep cloaked in expectation, armored in superiority. His every step was deliberate, as if the very ground of Wayne Manor should bend to his will. He was the blood heir, the legacy reborn. Everything in the manor should have been his.

But instead of reverence, he was met with resistance.

When he challenged Drake—Timothy Drake, the imposter who had dared to stand at his father’s side—Damian expected combat, a duel to settle succession. He anticipated a fight that would end with his place solidified and his father's acknowledgment finally secured. But Drake refused. He did not raise a hand. He yielded with words instead of steel, and Damian, raised in a world where weakness was unforgivable, saw it as cowardice.

Worse still, Bruce his father had intervened. Not as a warrior stepping into the arena, but as a father—shielding the usurper. Protecting someone who had no claim, no birthright, no Ra’s al Ghul in his lineage, no biological connection that is burning in his veins. Damian had lashed out. Fury surged through him like fire through dry kindling. How could his father not see it? He was the true son. The legacy of both Bat and Demon ran through his blood.

But here, in this foreign house built on sentiment and ideals, that blood meant nothing.

His hours of grueling training, his flawless blade work, his mastery of languages, poisons, shadows, everything none of it mattered. In the League, every achievement was tallied like gold, every drop of noble blood a weapon to be honored and sharpened. In Gotham, he was just a child with a name. No better than the orphans his father had chosen. He was expected to earn his place not through heritage, but through heart.

And that was a battlefield Damian had never been taught to fight on.

…..

By fourteen, Damian had changed. The transformation had not come swiftly, nor easily. It had been carved into him over years of clashing ideologies, quiet lessons, and countless moments of silent observation. The boy who once barked orders, who demanded the world bend to his will, had been slowly, methodically unraveled.

Gone was the child who screamed, "Mine!" at every turn. In his place stood a young warrior with weary eyes and calloused hands, one who had tasted loss, rejection, and the sting of unearned entitlement.

He had learned, through long nights spent watching others from the shadows of Wayne Manor’s hallways, that love was not given by birthright but earned through sacrifice. He had watched Dick steady the weight of leadership with a smile, watched Tim endure with patience and quiet brilliance, watched Jason bleed and rage and come back again and again for the family that had once failed him. And he had watched Bruce—not the detective that his grandfather would say nor the beloved that his mother would whisper of bedtime legends, but a flawed, weary man who carried his family not with a sword but with open hands.

The League had taught him to take. His siblings had taught him to stay.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” He had not heard the phrase spoken aloud, but he lived it in the moments that unfolded around him. He saw it in the way Alfred laid out tea for children who weren’t his. In the way Cass would wordlessly spar with him until exhaustion broke his fury. In the way Stephanie left notes on the fridge with dumb jokes just to make them laugh. These people—none of whom shared his blood—had chosen each other again and again.

And yet… in the quiet corners of his mind, sometimes, he still wished Danyal were here.

Danyal, who would have thrived in this strange and stubborn family. Danyal, whose softness would have been a strength here, not a flaw. Danyal, who had always looked at Damian not with envy or resentment, but with quiet love.

Damian had spent so long dismissing that gentleness as weakness, never realizing it had been a gift. Looking back now, he could see the missed moments—the times he could have shared instead of stolen, the times he could have listened instead of taken. His brother had not been lesser. He had simply been different. And Damian, in his arrogance, had mistaken compassion for cowardice.

Now, with Danyal long buried and the world colder for it, Damian carried the weight of that realization like a blade across the ribs—never fatal, but never forgotten.

…...

Then came the mission with the Flash. A time anomaly had rippled through the fabric of reality. Barry had worked tirelessly to fix the damage, racing through different timelines  until order was restored. But this time, though fixed, have a new aftermath. A vision stitched together from remnants of a path not taken.

The Justice League, ever analytical, treated it like a curious glitch in the multiversal code—a harmless projection of a possibility that never came to pass. They gathered to observe it as they would a peculiar ripple in a still pond, detached but intrigued. Damian had been pulled along by Jon, who bounced with his usual boundless energy, unaware of what the vision would show. Damian followed, armored in detachment, a practiced indifference in place.

But then he saw it.

The flickering image glowed before him like a memory he had never lived. There, seated around the long dining table in Wayne Manor, was a scene so mundane, so heartbreakingly normal, it rooted him in place. His father sat at the head of the table, a rare softness in his posture as he poured tea. Nightwing laughed mid-conversation, shoulders relaxed, while Tim rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Jason leaned back with his feet on the table, earning a nudge from Cassandra. And at the center of it all, smiling as if he'd always belonged—was Danyal.

His twin. Whole. Alive.

Danyal passed the bread basket to Tim with a crooked grin, said something that made Alfred chuckle. He nudged Damian's double with his elbow, teasing him, effortlessly folded into the rhythm of a family Damian had once believed unreachable. It was a life that had never happened, a universe where Danyal had lived—not just lived, but thrived.

Damian’s breath caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell once, twice, the motion sharp and sudden. His fingers, usually so still, twitched at his sides, as if the rest of him hadn’t caught up with the emotion rising within. Before he could wrest control back from his heart, his hand extended—reaching, aching, needing.

And the word tore from him before thought could stop it.

"Mine."

It escaped in a whisper but echoed like a roar in his ears. Not the scream of a spoiled prince demanding treasure, but the broken, silent cry of a boy mourning what he had never known he needed. It was not greed that moved him, not anymore. It was grief. Regret. A raw, unfiltered longing for the life that had slipped through his fingers before he had ever realized he wanted it.

Around him, the room shifted. Justice League members who moments ago stood in detached curiosity now exchanged curious glances, as they saw the projection and Robin’s reaction to a projection that is just showing a what-if scenario.

The projection flickered. Danyal’s laughter shimmered and dissolved into static. The dining table faded. The light dimmed.

And Damian remained frozen, hand still half-raised, reaching for a future that was never his to claim.

…..

In the heart of the Infinite Realms, where time unraveled and rewound in endless loops and rivers of light, a lone figure hovered silently above the drifting threads of fate. Clockwork, the Master of Time, ancient and eternal, gazed down upon the scene unfolding within the mortal world. His staff gleamed as it gears ever turning, ticking in rhythm with realities both seen and unseen.

His eyes that is both ageless and all-knowing, rested on the image of a boy no longer a child. Damian Al Ghul Wayne stood still before the dying glow of a vanished vision, his heart laid bare. Once a prince of shadows, molded by assassins and pride, Damian now stood not as a conqueror, but as a brothe still grieving. He no longer sought to possess or dominate, but to reclaim something that had always been just out of reach: family.

The Observers had spoken long ago, their verdicts cold and absolute. Danyal’s future, they had said, was a path carved in steel and soaked in blood. The catalyst of the Infinite Realms, the one who will bring the end. But Clockwork had always known better. Time, after all, was not a straight line, it branched, curved, rebelled. And in one of those near-forgotten offshoots, he had seen a flicker. A possibility so faint it could have been dismissed as error. But Clockwork did not dismiss.

He had seen a future in which the Infinite Realms chaotic would finally know peace. He had seen a king . And that king—against all odds—had come in the form of Danyal Al Ghul Wayne.

A soft, amused breath escaped the Master of Time as his gaze shifted across the layers of existence to a shadow nestled within the Realms themselves. There, hidden among the currents of ectoplasm and fractured echoes of forgotten souls, stood a young ghost. His white hair drifted like mist in the realm’s gentle current, his glowing green eyes solemn yet radiant. Gone were the dark locks, icey blue eyes and quiet smiles of Danyal Al Ghul. In his place stood Daniel Fenton—Danny Phantom—the Halfa. Half-human, half-ghost. A being unlike any other. A bridge between life and death.

Clockwork observed him with fondness, a rare warmth in his otherwise distant demeanor. He remembered the moment clearly, the crack between timelines where fate had faltered just long enough for intervention. The Observers had turned away, believing that Clockwork will carry out their verdict to execute the young boy, but Clockwork had seen the glimmer of what could be. He had rescued the boy from his grave and scattered his memories.

He had delivered the amnesiac child to a quiet home in Amity Park, into the waiting arms of the unsuspecting Fenton couple—eccentric, brilliant, and just compassionate enough to raise him without ever questioning the mystery of his arrival. The boy was given a name, a room, a place to grow. And on that fateful day, when Danny stepped into the portal and his molecules split between two worlds, Clockwork had watched it happen with a quiet, satisfied nod. That had been the moment. The transformation. The birth of a future king.

The Infinite Realms would have their High King.

And now, as the Realms shimmered in resonance with Damian’s grief, and Danny’s own presence and ignorance hummed at the edge of understanding, Clockwork let the corners of his lips curl just slightly.

He had never told the Observers about this faint possible of a timeline. The one he saw only once, a future so far removed it flickered like starlight on the edge of perception. This timeline where, both the Realms have their king but he will have a granchild.

Clockwork kept that knowledge close. Even for a being beyond time, some secrets were too precious to share.

As he look at the grieving Damian telling his family a future could have been and Danny enjoying his somewhat normal routine for a young Halfa like him not knowing the immediate danger that is quickly closing in on him.

Clockwork smiled, All in due time.

…...

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: Again it got too long for my liking....

PPS: I got a bit carried away, hehehehehe.....

[blood-smiles]

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

After a day of hard work you deserve a break, don’t you think so? Well, if that’s the case I’m sure your adoring lover is waiting with open arms!

You best hurry, you don’t want the water to get cold, do you?

It isn’t rare for Alejandro to suggest to bathe together, in fact, he wished the both of you could enjoy a warm bath together more often.

The act of being naked in each other’s company isn’t always intended to be sexual. The love between you is much more than skin deep, it’s something intimate, sacred even.

You could love the other in their most natural state, without a cage of fabric stopping you from feeling the each other’s warmth.

The air was of passion with the slightest hint of ‘Rose vanilla’. You tried out that riveting word on your tongue once again, Passion—A gentle flame of fervent adoration, unique to you, only your (delicate/calloused/steady) hands could hold that fire without getting burnt.

Sultry candlelight casted upon Alejandro’s unblemished fair skin, his deep scarlet eyes flitted to your form.

You could get lost in those stunning hues any day, they were hot and alive like blood, like the substance that runs through your veins.

He had removed his glasses, his stunning hair pooling over his shoulders and dipping into the warm soapy water.

“Join me, won’t you?” He coaxed, arms moving and water sloshing in the tub.

You stared for a while longer, his face really was one of a masculine maiden, you quietly admired the small details of his perfect features. His side profile was that of a delicate doll. Alejandro’s nose bridge was tall, the tip of his nose was upturned and his jawline was sharp but still elegant. It was as if he had been molded carefully by a master sculptor. He was the perfect balance of fragility and strength.

You couldn’t help but look down at his lips— Full and plump, a soft shade of cherry blossom pink and possessing the sweetest, most perfect cupids bow you had ever seen. Ah! How could you forget that pretty dot of melanin below those lovely lips. 

You wondered how his lips would look in a scarlet lipstick shade, oh.. how you would love to witness such a display.

A deep chuckle resonated from the object of your admiration, dragging you back to the moment.

You cleared your throat and hurried to undress, the act of removing the day’s clothes was as if shedding a second skin and putting your worries to air out. You exhaled gently, brushing some hair behind your ear as you slowly submerged your body in the lukewarm water.

You closed your eyes in bliss, shoulders relaxing completely as you sunk further in the water. You felt like a rubber ducky drifting peacefully on a blanket of bubbles.

You were so in your zen that you didn’t even notice the soft sound of movement in the bathtub, you barely even registered that you weren’t leaning against the cool ridge of the bathtub anymore but on the soft heaving chest of your significant other.

His long, slender fingers ran over your slick skin, rubbing oils into your aching muscles, lathering soap over your hair peppering your neck with chaste kisses as he did so.

“Long day?” He asked, the deep, velvety timbre of his voice lulling you into a bit of a half conscious half unconscious state.

You simply answered with a hum, resting the back of your head in his shoulder, accidentally giving him even more skin to mark with little bruises.

You sat between his legs, watching rose petals floating around the bathtub like little fish.

Alejandro always found a way to snake romance into each and every one of your interactions, be it with a kiss in your cheek, carrying your bag or just.. being there, hand grasping yours tightly.

You felt his violet tresses sticking to your temple, the silky feeling against your skin making you being a hand up to swipe it from your face.

“My turn..” you murmured, scooting away from

him and gesturing for him to turn around. He smiled tenderly, turning his back to you and pulling his damp hair out on his back.

You always admired his long hair, your fingers slid through the strands finding not a single knot.

You helped him wash his hair, not missing a moment to not touch his pretty locks. You carefully rubbed in soap, praising the softness of it while you washed the suds off.

You dragged a fingernail over the various beauty marks in his skin, looking like intentionally placed ink dots. Your finger ventured down his spine, causing Alejandro to straighten his back in reflex. You felt the shiver climb down his vertebrae, quickly removing your touch before he could get.. frisky.

He peered at you from over his shoulder, if you hadn’t payed a little more attention you’d missed the slight pout on his lips.

Suddenly water splashed on your face, you gasped in faux offense, putting an appalled hand on your chest as you replied with another splash of water his way, wetting his already drying face again.

His fringe stuck to his forehead, his expression lighting up with amusement.

“Ah.. I see how it is..” he teased, raising his arms playfully before pouncing like a cat capturing a yarn ball.

He laughed as he caught you, arms tightening around you in an all consuming death grip, like a boa wrapping around a defenseless mouse.

“Got you!” He whispered-yelled in your ear with the most obvious undertone of pride and snark. He bit your cheek affectionately, chest pressing against your back so closely you could feel the steady drumming of his heart.

 You giggled, letting him drown you in his overly sweet gestures. Hands gently holding onto his own, your fingers had begun to prune, the wrinkles on your pads reminding you it was time to get out of the water.

The water had begun to turn cold, yet another reason why to dry off and retire to bed.

“Your hands are getting all pruned..” Alejandro noticed, his hand interweaving with yours as he inspected your palm close up, eyes squinting lightly.

“Let’s dry off, okay?” He emerged from the bathtub, drying his body off briefly before turning his attention to you, gesturing for you to follow after him.

He swaddled you in a large towel, rubbing the water off you, making sure he doesn’t miss a spot of undried skin or hair.

 As he worked, you looked out the window, admiring the way the moon looked in the sky, the stars twinkled like one of those old fairy tale movies.

Alejandro admired you this time, his gaze lingered, adoring and revering. He pondered how he acquired such a perfect person? How you would willingly give him something as precious and rare as your love?

To him, you were far more beautiful than any flower, brighter than any star and more precious than any rich a stupid mortal like him could acquire, he wondered— After all this pain he had endured, were you his reward? 

His hand held your face, his kiss was feather-light a soft brush of his lips against your forehead. The hand cradling your head trembled, as if he would tighten his hold you would crumble like a fragile sugar cube. Time seemed to slow, the only thing registering in his ears being the soft breathing coming from your form, the warmth of his love lingered like fairy dust in the air, he turned your gaze to him, thumbs rubbing against the apple of your cheeks.

“Oh, my love..”

Deep violet stuck to his cheekbones, garnet eyes   glistened, his throat bobbing before finally speaking.

“I would scorch my hands time and time again with your light just to graze a hair on your head.

I would set myself on fire if that meant I would be allowed to burn alongside you, mi dulce lucero.”

There was an ask that requested bathtime with Alejandro!! Took me like 200 years to write because I was having trouble thinking on what to make him do but uh!!! Here you go!! I hope it’s to your liking!!

also.. Take a listen to the song “Tuyo” by Nico Play!! It’s AWESOME!! I listened to it like 30 times while writing this :p !

[kirlicues]

Rosewood Place | Sims 2 Residential Lot Download

Here is another lot with a country farmhouse/Victorian feel. It features a large wrap-around porch, and a small fishing pond. It has 2+ bedrooms and 2 baths and is built on a 3x3 lot. Cost: §91,068

This home started out a more modern looking build for one of my kids' families who was more on the techie side. All the mechanical workbench items? This lot had them.

But after changing the roof up a little and adding that wrap-around porch the build took on a decidedly country farmhouse feel, so I went with it. 😂 Almost all of the furniture has been removed and there's not a robotic item in site.

It's now got a nice little pond in the back as opposed to a mean little pond...?🤷‍♀️, and a patio for enjoying outdoor dining on summer days.

Here's a view of the floor plan:

1st Floor: Clockwise from bottom left: living room, kitchen, mudroom/laundry room, garage, entryway, dining area, and bathroom.

2nd Floor: Clockwise from bottom left: open to living room below, master bedroom, bathroom, office/study/rec room/bedroom #1, and tiny bedroom #2. Optional modification: You could fill in the upstairs space that's open to the living room below, turn half of the kids bedroom into a hallway and half into another bathroom and have a larger bedroom if you wanted.

Here's one "inside" picture of the kitchen. I had fun decorating it a little, but you don't have to keep it this way.

Kitchen:

After I went to take pictures of this lot I realized that I now have 3 3x3 lots with "rose" in the name. 🤦‍♀️I must find another flower to name these lots after! Maybe "Daisy Drive" or "Poppy Place", or "Daylily Lane" will be next someone please stop me? 🤣🤭

Rosewood Park: MF | SFS

All EPs and SPs are required.

*I highly recommend that you have the PerfectPlants mod from TwoJeffs*

I’ve run this home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run this lot through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. This lot comes with a shiny custom thumbnail so it has even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

This home only has 2 pieces of CC, which you may already have in your game. These can easily be replaced or omitted if you don’t want them though.

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims -Maxis "Lost & Found" Diagonal Bohemian Molding at @pforestsims

If you want your chimney to look like the one in the picture you’ll also need to grab these Maxis match masonry chimney recolors, but the original chimney texture should also look just fine with this lot.

I'm also using the Bay Tree texture default by @tvickiesims

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some “Lost & Found” Maxis objects? Check out this post.

[leighsartworks216]

Designated Lockpicker

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Inspired by this post

Saw this and I HAD to write something about it. It only took me until 11:45 to finish it but it's okay I'll suffer the consequences

Warnings: one swear word, reference to Astarion's past abuse, mention of a terrible texture, innuendos

Word Count: 1,219

Masterlist

AO3

You poke your head into the room. Dust motes float through the air, which reeks with musk and mold. You'd probably cover your nose and seek fresh air if this wasn't the millionth time you’d smelled it.

Your eyes scan along the walls, floor and shelves, searching for anything interesting. Food would be nice - Gale wouldn’t stop pestering you for ingredients to cook with. Bandages wouldn’t hurt either if it would ease Shadowheart’s workload every time you got into a minor scrape.

The room was rather sparse, but it looked like it may have been a study at some point. Books were scattered everywhere, chairs were tipped on their sides or had broken legs, a desk was angled oddly for its placement. Whoever lived here before, they must have left in a hurry. Which was excellent news. Maybe they left something behind.

From the other rooms of the building, you can hear your companions’ muffled voices. You can only make out one or two words as they speak. Karlach seemed to be talking to Astarion; Wyll and Gale were going back and forth further away. You couldn’t hear Shadowheart or Lae’zel, but this didn’t surprise you.

The floorboards creak and groan as you step into the study. Stray beams of light keep the gloom away, for the most part. You can almost imagine how lovely it once was.

You go to take a book off the shelf, but immediately draw your hand back when the binding squishes at the slightest pressure. You scowl in disgust and wipe your hand on your pants to remove the gross sensation. Unfortunately, your more learned companions would not be getting any new reading materials today.

Against the far wall, stationed behind the desk, was a dresser with a glass case on top. All the case had was scrolls, damp and turning green. Any information they may have held was gone.

You grab the handles of each drawer in turn, sliding open the dresser to reveal its contents. A vial of ink here, another useless scroll there - nothing exciting. Until you open the bottom drawer.

Poorly hidden under some loose paper was a chest. It appeared to be made of metal, hardly rusted despite its surroundings. For its size, you were shocked how heavy it was when you lifted it out and set it on the desk just behind you. The lock didn’t look too complicated. You had some spare lockpicks in your pack, you could easily grab one and get it open. You could.

Instead, you leave the chest where it is and step into the hall. You try to listen for your friends, again, but they seem to have done deeper within the establishment. So you do the next best thing: “Astarion?”

The shout travels down the building, and from one of the rooms pops out the vampire spawn. He seemed confused why you’d be calling him of all people. But the confusion is quickly masked with suave confidence as he sauntered down the hall to you. “Yes, dear?”

You smile sweetly at him. “I found a locked chest. Could you help me open it? Please?”

He smirks and taps a finger under your chin, getting you to tilt your head upward with just one motion. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He follows you back into the room. His nose scrunches with the smell of rotting books, but the look is gone as soon as he sees the chest. You round the desk and turn it around toward him. He can’t stop his smile as you rest your arms and chin on top, still fixing him with that darling look.

This had become a habit, to his mind, anyway. For you, this was an enrichment of sorts to provide Astarion with a sense of purpose. Late night talks had made it abundantly clear just how much he loved feeling useful. For two centuries he was used, his autonomy stolen from him for the sake of his master. But little tasks like this did not feel like an imbalance in power. He would open whatever lock you wished for the praise you showered on him alone, but you also ensured he got his pick of whatever was inside. He was being rewarded for his services, something that never happened before - nothing good, anyway - and you loved giving him his moment to shine.

He just assumed you couldn’t pick a lot to save your damn life.

“I’m beginning to think you just like watching me,” he teased. He produced a pick from his pocket and began working away at the lock. “Trying to learn my trade secrets, are we?"

You hummed, looking down at his hands as they moved together fluidly. He could do this in his sleep. “Never. I just love watching you work, that’s all.”

He chuckled. “Really now?” He lifts his attention from the lock to look at you, hands pausing in their ministrations. “And what is it about my work that you enjoy so much?”

You meet his gaze. He can only describe the look you give him as fond. Love seems to rest in your irises, gleaming back at him, on display for the whole world to see. “Your hands,” you answer, and while it was supposed to be part of your playful banter, you say it so genuinely. “You’re always so precise, like you just know exactly what needs to be done before you even start. It reminds me of your embroidery.”

“And here I thought it was for more depraved reasons.” It’s a deflection. He still isn’t used to being seen like this. Seen by you. He still thinks of the way you describe how his hair curls around his ears, and how his face wrinkles when he laughs. “I’m always happy to give you a hands-on lesson, my sweet. Just say the word.”

“And if I ask for you to teach me how to embroider?”

His devious smirk relaxed into a soft grin. He nods. “It would be my honor.”

Silence takes over as he returns to his work. It’s warm and welcoming, despite your surroundings. Basking in the quiet felt easy around him. He could be reading a book, and you’d slot yourself right next to him, and never was there an expectation for him to stop to entertain you. You just wanted to be around him. It meant more to him than you could ever know.

With a final turn of the pick, a faint click comes from the chest. He seems to puff up with the success, like an all-too-proud bird. He slips the pick back in his pocket and steps back as you round the desk. Instead of going straight for the chest, you cup his cheek in one hand and press a kiss to the other. His cheeks would be positively flushed if he had the blood for it.

“Thank you, Astarion,” you whisper against his skin, pressing another kiss to his cheek right after. He leans into the heat of your hand.

“It was my pleasure, darling.”

You pull away with a grin that could put the sun to shame. You turn to open the chest, eager to know what hides behind those metal walls, and he cannot stop admiring how perfectly a stray beam of light hits your skin.

[emmasmoke8]

G.U.N. agent Sonic AU:

Sonic appeared on Christmas Island as a hoglet, living with the chao and other animals. Before he could encounter Eggman, he was found and captured by G.U.N.

His first few years were training and experimentation. They cut/removed his quills to make their weapons. They pushed him to be faster and faster. They taught him to fight both hand-to-hand and with a lot of weapons. Most importantly, they molded him to be loyal and emotionless. For these reasons, Sonic didn’t fight when he was sent to ‘clean up’ an area. He was eventually so powerful that they only made him ‘clean’ other G.U.N. bases that needed to be erased from the records

Then, Abraham became the commander. He investigated this top secret project. He was absolutely horrified, and not just because this hedgehog reminded him of the one he used to know. Abraham shut the program down. Arrested, imprisoned, and even executed (if they were sentenced execution) many in the branch of G.U.N. who allowed projects such as this one

Unfortunately, Sonic was too powerful to be let free, so although he didn’t get missions, he was passed around across G.U.N. bases. He eventually got Sam Speed as a handler. Between him, Abraham, and other agents, Sonic developed a sense of self. He chose to become a proper G.U.N. agent despite the insistence that he didn’t need to. Sonic was stuck with G.U.N. and his training, so he didn’t see a reason not to

He was the one they sent after Eggman’s machines because only he was strong enough to handle them

Because of Sonic, Amy and Tails joined G.U.N., too, and Knuckles receives their support in keeping the Master Emerald safe. It should be noted that Sonic didn’t want any of this to happen.

I have Tails’ scene mapped out. Sonic accidentally saves him, like canon. He brings Tails back to G.U.N. only because he wants them to find Tails’ parents. Tails wants to stay with Sonic, and he proves his worth by showing off his intellect. He’s allowed to join. Sonic sneaks into Tails’ room after he finds out. He’s about to shoot the kid because he sincerely believes death is a better fate for him, but he stops when Tails awakens from a nightmare. Sonic comforts him, and decides in that moment that he can’t take Tails’ choice away from him. If Tails wants to be part of G.U.N., that’s the kit’s decision

My ideas for this Sonic is that he wears a gray-black G.U.N. jacket, only removing it when he needs to get serious. He grows his quills out because he’s finally allowed to, and he usually keeps them tied back in a ponytail-esque style (I like the hc, sue me). He has more boots than shoes, but they still allow him to run fast. He keeps a gun powered by a chaos drive (from his quills) on a thigh holster while a knife is attached to the interior of his jacket. He prefers hand-to-hand, tho. And while Tails eventually gets the plane, Sonic will probably keep a number of rides himself that help him preserve chaos energy.

[trashmouth-richie]

this promot was sent in by my lovely @joejoequinnquinn here.

prompt words were: chair, belt, “good girl” and smut 🧐

18+ no minors, talk of bdsm, two idiots in love, drug use, steve is mentioned in this off handedly, (i love adding him in at random) eddie, once again, talks about his dick, fluffy smut, Journey slander 😩, high activities, smut! be aware that the dialogue probably doesn’t make sense because they’re jenelle evans from teen mom 2 high

<1.3k eddie x fem reader

a trip to skull rock with a shared joint and a random piece of furniture, what could go wrong?

“Is this your idea of bdsm?” 

Eddie tightens the belt around your wrists, a joint hanging slack from his lips, his eyes squinted with concentration, “FM?—the radio station?” 

Looking back, it probably wasn’t the best idea to get higher than a kite on Easter with your boyfriend and then try to seduce one another. But alas, here you were. 

The drive to skull rock was interesting to say the very least. Eddie claimed he knew how to get there only to have you traveling fifteen miles in the wrong direction— the ‘come back soon!’ sign should have been a giveaway. 

“It’s an acro—af-ro—” your tongue felt like a piece of rubber in your mouth, you’d already mistaken it for gum once tonight, “Dan Aykroyd?” 

“That guy from Ghost?”

The giggles took you over making you lose balance and tipping over the chair you were supposed to be sitting in, hitting the dirt with a soft little thud, hands still tied behind your back. 

Eddie sat in the chair, looking down at you and shaking his head, knowing full well you both shouldn’t have smoked that last blunt. But you were so cute when you begged, he could never deny you. 

“BDSM,” you continue, managing to sit up right, “it’s an acronym… but I dunno what for.” 

“Oh, yeah—” Eddie scratched his head, eyes red and hazy, “I mean Harrington said it was pretty easy, and chicks went nuts over it, calling him ‘daddy’ and shit, begging to be choked.” 

“‘Sir’ suits you better.” 

“How about ‘Master’?” 

“Now you’re pushin’ it.”  

You’re intrigued. interests officially peaked as your scraped dirt under your nails, attempting a castle behind your back. 

“Would I get a title? Is the peasant whore royal enough for such luxuries?” 

Eddie frowns and puts the joint to your lips, “don’t call yourself that. I could punish you y’know.” 

Your eyes widen as they follow the circle of smoke into the air, Eddie’s finger dancing around the center of it as if it were a ring. 

He sighs audibly, loud like a bored child. Suddenly fixated on the chair he was sitting in. 

“Did we bring this?” 

You both burst into laughter, scaring away birds and monsters alike. Disrupting any bit of peace the forest animals had before two stoned idiots stumbled into the wilderness with a plan they had zero idea on how to execute. 

BDSM in the woods, only Eddie Munson would think that was sexy. 

He hoists you up, loosening the belt that was barely held on, holding your dirty hands in his, pulling you onto his lap so you’re straddling his narrow slutty boy hips. 

Onyx would be jealous by your eyes alone, and Eddie’s looked downright demonic. Demon eyes in a cherubs face, that was your Eddie. 

One of your favorite parts of being with him is how his weirdness meshed with yours. Whenever you got this high you could spend hours staring at his porcelain skin, wondering how in the hell he was crafted, molded, carved from the rarest of granite and marble stones and that he was yours— all yours. 

Your hands walked across his face, counting his eyelashes to ten and starting again. 

“Your lips are squishy,” you announce after a while of staring and not blinking,, “like gum— spongy, pink, could be almost made of cake.” 

Eddie adored you, the way your eyebrows quirked like a cartoon when you were deep in thought or admiring his face. 

“Definitely not cake, but you could taste them if you’d like?” 

“Does it hurt?” you ask, removing your fingers from his mouth and squishing his cheeks. 

“The boner you’re sitting on? Yeah, a bit.” 

Your eyes widened in honest horror, “swear to God— I thought it was a flashlight.” 

“Nope,” Eddie attempts a wink but ends up shutting both eyes for a collective six seconds, “that's all me baby.” 

Hands lacing around his neck you grin stupidly into him, pressing your lips to the pretty plush that makes up his mouth. Pecking them with soft chicken like kisses. 

His hands work the globe of your ass, squeezing, rubbing, spanking, as you bite along his collar bone, keeping your teeth marks printed into his skin— your own method of claiming him. 

Buttons scatter along the dirt floor as you rip his shirt open, desperate to see the black widow that had been teasing you, the grotesque demonic zombie head that called the left side of his chest home. He promised someday the right side would be all yours. 

Tracing your name into the blank space with your finger nail, Eddie lets out a low groan. Hooded eyes stare at you and his mouth is on yours before you can finish taking a breath. 

It’s hot, uncoordinated in every way as the two of you claw at each other's pants in the mile high condition you were both in. 

“Why…” you grunt struggling against his zipper, leaning backwards towards his knees, “..is this so difficult.” 

Eddie looks down and grins lazily. 

“Here, lemme help.” He unfastens the button on his jeans, wiggling his hips to shove hia jeans down enough so his cock stood like a tent in his checkered boxers. 

“A picnic?” You gleam with red stark stars in your eyes, “for me?” 

He pulls you forward, “oh baby, take all that you want.” 

It’s quick, dirty, every bit of clumsy filled with shared laughs that were laced with whimpering moans as your bodies rock together, coming together so hard you nearly break the chair. 

You buckle into him, fingers digging into his shoulders to hold yourself up. His spend on the belly of your shirt and the top of the waistband of your ‘easy access’ cotton shorts. 

Nestling into him further you inhale the scent from the sweet burn of weed and sex clinging to his skin and the toothpaste that dribbled down his neck that wasn’t wiped off well enough. 

His hands stroke your back lazily, lips pressed to your shoulder, cock softening on your thigh. 

“What time is it?” 

“Sweetheart, I couldn’t read my watch right now if I tried—everything is spinning.” 

His face is pale, neck clammy with sweat. 

“Gonna puke?”

“Tryin’ not—” 

Holding tight to your waist and moving you over, he throws up the breakfast you had made at two in the afternoon. Eddie hurled and hurled until he shook from the ache of dry heaving.

Leaning back in the chair that you both couldn’t remember the exact whereabouts of how it appeared— he yawned with exhaustion.

“Let’s go home, take a hot shower, have a little nap?” 

He nods and you help him up, pulling his hands until he’s flat footed, and you’re stumbling your way ahead of him. 

“Jesus, I fucking came and barfed on your shirt.” 

You shrug, slurring, “it’s okay— it’s yours anyway.” 

He scoffs in bratty metal fashion, offended by your music knowledge or lack thereof, “I don’t own a ‘Journey’ shirt.”

Eddie pulls you back by the waist and examines the shirt, flipping the collar to see a sharpied ‘WM’ on the tag. 

He geeks out a smile, the color of his irises bleaching back to dark brown, “better get that ‘good girl’ act ready— because Wayne is going to lose his fucking mind.”

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[lightning-and-dragons]

Here's a random thought I had...I'm not sure if anyone else has thought of this before but...

What if Libber, the previous elemental Master of Lightning, was the Administrator?

What if, for reasons unknown, she left Jay at the Walker's Junkyard and left to go to the Realm of Madness, where she ended up staying? In that time, she became a leader and found comfort in the control she held over the people there.

After the Merge, she could've found Jay floating in one of those voids between realms, realized that he was her son, and took him into the Administration.

Maybe, after talking with him and learning more about the son she didn't know, she learns that he isn't who she wants him to be. She herself doesn't believe in all of the values and morals Wu taught Jay, the morals that Jay stands for. Maybe she doesn't like the man Jay had become. Maybe she's disappointed in who he is.

So, she ordered that his memories be removed. With his memories gone, Libber could mold him into the son that she wanted, the son that she couldn't raise herself but could change now.

She could take away the pieces of him that she didn't like. She could replace those pieces with her own morals and motivations. He would be like an empty canvas, waiting for someone to tell him what was right and what was wrong. And she would be the one to tell him.

She could turn him into a fine agent, a perfect son, one that she was proud of, completely removing any trace of the son she didn't want.

But even after he lost his memories, Jay always felt like he was something more than an agent, that he was meant for more than just filing paperwork. And that was something that Libber couldn't take away.

[desertdollranch]

Making Cheese with Josefina

Today Josefina learned how to make cheese! She's finally old enough to do the task with guidance from her older sisters. And she's here with me to teach everyone else how to do the same, following the directions contained in Josefina's Cookbook, which will be shared at the end of this post.

The Montoya rancho keeps a small herd of goats specifically to use for their milk. They use it in cooking and for drinking, and they preserve it by making cheese, which can be stored and used through the winter or other times when the female goats aren't lactating.

Cheese making is an ancient art, developed thousands of years ago. It was brought to North America by Europeans. It's done a bit differently now than it was in Josefina's time, and lucky for us, the necessary ingredients are easy to find.

The Montoya sisters take turns milking the goats. Then the milk is brought to the kitchen, where it is heated with a bit of cultured milk left over from the previous batch of cheese.

After the rennet is added, the milk is allowed to sit, until the curds (the solid bits of fat and protein) separate from the whey (the liquid).

Rennet is an enzyme that coagulates milk. In Josefina's time, it was obtained from the stomach lining of a young goat. When goats were butchered for meat, the stomachs were carefully cleaned and dried so the rennet could be used for making cheese.

Today, you can buy vegetable-sourced rennet that does not come from animals.

Then the curds are scooped into a straining cloth, and Josefina squeezes all the whey out of the curds until they're dry.

The cheese is pressed into small molds. Some of it is left to age and develop a richer flavor, and the rest is wrapped up and brought out to the fields for the laborers to eat with lunch.

Josefina always brings a bit of cheese when she and her sisters head into the hills to pick piñón nuts. She's carrying her lunch in a bag woven with wool produced by the sheep that live at the Montoya rancho. I made that as well as her little water canteen.

Recipe and directions are below the cut.

Before I get to the recipe (bear with me, this won't be long), I do want to verify that Josefina's Cookbook is legit and the cheese making method actually works. I first made it in 2006, and loved it so much that I moved on to more elaborate recipes and learned how to make mozzarella, feta, and a few other kinds of cheese! It's a lot of fun and very rewarding to master the art. So if you try this and enjoy it, you absolutely can turn this skill into a hobby of making cheese.

Thanks for reading my life story. Now on to the recipe.

INGREDIENTS

4 tablets of Junket rennet (buy this online if you can't find it at a grocery store)

2 teaspoons water

1/2 gallon goat's milk (not ultra-pasteurized)

3 tablespoons plain yogurt with live cultures (not low-fat or nonfat)

1/2 teaspoons salt

DIRECTIONS

Put the rennet tablets in the small bowl and crush them with the back of the small spoon. Add the water, stir to dissolve, and set aside.

Pour the milk into the large saucepan. Add the yogurt and salt, and stir to mix completely.

Clip the thermometer to the edge of the sauce- pan. The tip of the thermometer should not touch the bottom or sides of the saucepan.

Turn on the burner to medium-high to heat the milk mixture to about 90°, or "wrist warm"- warm, but still cool enough so you can stir it with your finger.

Turn off the heat and move the pan from the burner to a warm spot in your kitchen. Remove the thermometer and gently stir in the dissolved rennet and water.

Let the saucepan stand undisturbed for at least 1 hour so it can "set," or form a thick, stiff curd. This may take several hours longer if the room is cool.

As the milk sets, line the colander with 2 layers of dampened cheesecloth. Place the lined colander in the baking pan.

When the milk has turned into a custard-like curd, use the knife to cut the curd into 2-inch chunks. Use the slotted spoon to gently move the pieces into the colander to drain.

Let the cheese stand at room temperature for at least 4 hours so the whey can drain. Do not stir it, but from time to time tilt the colander or sieve and adjust the cheesecloth to help drain the whey. As the pan fills with whey, pour it out so the cheese is not standing in the whey.

When all the whey has drained, the cheese can be gently molded with your hands into a ball.

Serve the cheese immediately, or store it in the refrigerator for up to a week.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

I kno you've written it a few times but, awkward little shit bruce is my favorite

"Bruce I'm so sorry."

He heard the words and he knew the face. Felt the cold little hands in his. And all he could do was hug you. Pull you against his chest and bury his face in your neck. Breather in the smell of lemon and ivory soap. Clean and fresh. Familiar. Banishing the smell of grave dirt and molding leaves.

He doesn't cry. He can't cry. But when your arms wrap around him hard, like cotton-wrapped rebar and he felt Alfred squeeze the back of his neck, steering adults around the scene and accepting condolences on his behalf, he felt like he could breathe.

_____

Alfred knew it was unfair, but- he was a little resentful that you couldn't just be at their beck and call.

Bruce seemed to... deflate when you weren't around. Not that he was chipper or cheerful when you were there but. You could guilt him into certain things a lot easier.

He responded to- well. Girls. He was comfortable with them. Or at least with you. And if a cute little 12-year-old fussing over him and dragging him to the skating rink or wherever made him leave his father's study, so be it.

But today?

Today you were occupied. Camping with your brother this weekend. Tramping through the woods and such.

"Master Bruce-"

"I'm fine, Alfred," he sighed.

Obviously, Alfred thought, rolling his eyes as he removed the untouched lunch plate. "I heard a credible rumor that Miss Y/N has a birthday coming soon," Alfred mused, "perhaps we ought to-"

"I'm going to buy her some new Ice skates," he said, not looking up from the newspaper.

"Sensible," Alfred said, smiling a little. "And when will we go to buy them?"

"Later, Alfred," Bruce said. "I want to call her coach and double-check her sizes."

"Sizes plural?" Alfred asked.

"There's a competition outfit she's been doodling," he said absently. "She's been saving money for it for a year and she's not even close."

"Sensible and thoughtful," Alfred amended, a little touched.

[x-mencomics]

X-Factor #14 - The Mutant Program!

Neighbors have called the police to Scott and Madelyne's former home which is now lying in a pile of rubble thanks to Scott's powerful optic blast (see last issue). Scott is STRUGGLING. He hallucinates, seeing the Professor scold him for how he's handled his relationships with Jean and Madelyne. The cops search Scott and find pictures of the two women, and they recall that a red-haired woman's body was recently found and is now in the morgue. They drive Scott there in their car. Or they try to.

RIIIPP!

Master Mold appears and tears the roof off the car, trying to get to Scott. The police open fire, but Master Mold zaps one of them, turning him into a skeleton. Scott loses his glasses in the chaos, and opens his eyes toward the sound of Mast Mold. ZAPT! But the optic blast isn't very effective. Scott explains that he needs his visor, and the remaining cop has it. He gives it to Scott, and his next blast seems better, but Master Mold launches a blast of his own, knocking Scott off his feet.

Back at the hospital, Jean visits Warren. Unfortunately, Trish Tilby of W-ARC News bursts into the room with a cameraman and a camera and starts demanding answers from Warren: why did he misuse company funds, why is he backing a group of mutant hunters, is he going to get his wings removed. Jean telekinetically breaks the camera and tells Trish to leave. Doctors come in and help remove Trish and the cameraman. Warren is confused and tries to ask Jean what Trish meant by all those questions, but he's too weak. He passes out.

Meanwhile, back at the battle with Master Mold, the living cop grabs Scott and lifts him to his feet. They run for their lives, and Master Mold follows. Scott hits the cop on the back, knocking him out. He hides the cop behind a small building and leads Master Mold away. Scott blasts Master Mold a few more times, before finally shooting probably the most powerful blast I've ever seen him shoot. Master Mold is in pieces. Doesn't matter though. It starts rebuilding itself! It grabs Scott and starts crushing him in its giant hand. Scott cuts Master Mold’s hand from its arm with a sweeping blast. Master Mold opens its mouth and a huge blast comes from it, hitting nearby chemical/oil plants and causing a massive explosion. Master Mold is gone. Scott takes cover under Master Mold’s severed hand and somehow survives.

At the hospital, the doctors amputate Warren's wings.

[duxbelisarius]

Back to the Dance Part Seven: Westerosi War Finance

Thank you for reading this far; here's the master post if this is your first encounter!

As I said at the end of Part Six, I originally planned to cover fiscal policy/war finance within the posts about strategy, but I've decided to give the topic it's own write-up instead. I found there was more to write about on the subject than I previously thought, especially since this topic helps to further illustrate the issues with how the Dance is written.

i. "Show me the money!"

The natural starting point to discuss war finance in the Dance is with the Greens 'treasury plot,' since the later plot of 'Rhaenyra's tax policy' hinges upon it. The problems with it are threefold: 1) Owing to the peculiarities of Westerosi warfare and military organization, the cost of conducting warfare actually appears quite cheap, especially with the absence of wages (see Parts Three and Four); 2) This impression is reinforced by the narrative, which fails to give us an indication of the Greens need for coin or their expenditures; and 3) The plot itself or at least it's secrecy is unfeasible given what we know about the royal treasury and the position of Master of Coin. When we actually take into account what we're told and shown by the books regarding the role of money in warfare, the later plot of 'Rhaenyra's tax policy' lacks any foundations before the story even arrives there.

We've already discussed the lack of evidence for military wages in Westeros outside of mercenaries, and the books and George's own comments confirm their absence in no uncertain terms. In Catelyn VIII of AGOT, Catelyn Stark makes this observation regarding Robb's army:

This host her son had assembled was not a standing army such as the Free Cities were accustomed to maintain, nor a force of guardsmen paid in coin. Most of them were smallfolk: crofters, fieldhands, fishermen, sheepherders, the sons of innkeeps and traders and tanners, leavened with a smattering of sellswords and freeriders hungry for plunder. When their lords called, they came … but not forever.

It's worth remembering that Catelyn is a Tully by birth, and would have some knowledge of differences in custom or laws between the North and the southern kingdoms. The fact her comparisons are hired guards and Essosi professionals tells us that the Northerners are not alone in organizing this way, but that Westeros as a whole follows a similar mold.

While we don't get such a direct confirmation with fleets, the evidence indicates these are not maintained through wages either; George's 1999 "So Spake Martin" about the Lannister Fleet suggests that large war fleets are raised by calling one's banners as with armies, meaning the ships and their crews would be in the service of their lords much like knights and men-at-arms. It's also worth noting that out of the 200 ships of Stannis' fleet that attacked King's Landing in ACOK, only the Lyseni and Myrish contingents are said to have been under pay, while Stannis' need for coin only comes to the fore in ASOS following the loss of the majority of his bannermen and ships at the Blackwater, forcing him to depend on sellswords and sellsails. The removal of wages means the only substantial 'unit costs' so-to-speak would come from hiring mercenaries or actually building ships, and the only cases of the latter pertaining to the Dance are Dalton Greyjoy's ship-building before the Dance and Johanna Lannister's attempt at rebuilding her fleet afterwards. Black Trombo's Myrish sellswords are the only case we have of mercenaries fighting for the Blacks in any capacity, while the 1800 sellswords that accompanied Cole on his Crownlands campaign and the sellswords and freeriders mentioned in the Hightower army's ranks are the only mentions we have for the Greens.

The only real costs for the armies of the Dance would be maintenance costs, i.e. food, fodder, equipment, weapons, remounts, quartering, etc. Yet even hear, a number of factors would reduce these considerably, starting with the fact that most of the weapons, equipment, animals, and supplies would come with the men themselves or their lords initially, minimizing maintenance costs upfront. The emphasis placed on battles in the setting would also offer ample opportunities to restock by plundering a defeated foe. We saw in Part Two that logistics mostly depends on 'living off the land' and hauling supplies via baggage train, so unless the enemy used scorched earth tactics, feeding a host could be imposed on the enemy population whenever possible. We also know that in-kind taxation exists at the local level in the Seven Kingdoms, i.e. providing goods or services to one's lord in place of coin: Jon's POVs in ASOS and ADWD show that the Night's Watch receives taxes in goods and labour from the inhabitants of the Gift, although Benjen and Ned had hoped to encourage lords to settle there to be taxed for coin; per Jaime I of ADWD, a lord is entitled to a tenth of the grain milled on his lands. It's entirely possible that the lord(s) in charge of an army would cover some of their maintenance costs by extracting goods or services from their subjects as a duty they were owed or to count towards future taxes.

A factor which would further reduce or at least mitigate costs for the royal treasury is the vague command structure of Westerosi armies (see Part Three). The Wardens are the closest thing the Seven Kingdoms have to a central command, but according to George their role is mainly for defending against foreign invaders, and what authority they may have plays no role in the Dance. The only thing close to military infrastructure in the Dance is the royal roads, as Tyland's fortified granaries in King's Landing, Lannisport, and Gulltown were a postwar project. This means that unless the crown supported an army(s) directly with treasury funds, any coin spent on maintenance costs would come from the pockets of the lords leading the armies. The treasury would presumably compensate these lords for their expenditures, but these costs would be paid for at a later date. While warfare isn't 'free' in Westeros, there is a serious discrepancy between what we're told about the costs of waging it and what we are shown and can reasonably infer about the setting, which negatively affects the role of money in Aegon and Rhaenyra's stories.

The second problem with the 'treasury plot' follows on from the first, as the impression of the 'cheapness' of warfare we get from the worldbuilding is confirmed with how the Greens use the treasury. The Iron Bank of Braavos is entrusted with a quarter of the funds "for safekeeping," and no one is sent along to oversee them or to spend these funds on mercenaries or supplies in Essos. Since these funds appear to have been transferred to the Rogare Bank some years after the war, this suggests that the Greens were prepared to potentially fight a war with only 75% of the royal treasury at their disposal. Casterly Rock and Oldtown each receive a quarter as well, and the Hour of the Wolf later describes this as also being for 'safekeeping;' Johanna Lannister returns the funds held at Casterly Rock while Lyonel Hightower returns those at Oldtown, albeit "a good part" of those funds were stolen by his cousin Ser Myles Hightower. The return of the Casterly and Oldtown shares allows Tyland to set aside 1 million gold dragons for reconstruction loans "with the Crown's gold once more secure," which confirms that none of the funds were spent aside from Myles' embezzlement.

This leaves the 25% that remained in King's Landing as the only treasury funds that could possibly have been spent on the war effort, and F&B tells us that "King Aegon had spent every penny of the portion kept in King's Landing." This claim conflicts with what we are told and shown previously of the Greens spending, as "The Blacks and the Greens" tells us "the remaining wealth was to be used for bribes and gifts, and to hire sellswords if needed." We've already discussed the problem of sellswords, while the strategic isolation of the Green Council in King's Landing which I brought up in the Velaryon Blockade analysis (more on that in Part 8!) makes it unclear how such bribes and gifts could have been dispensed. They couldn't send money to the Triarchy because of the Blockade, and the nobles who abjured their oaths to Rhaenyra did so under penalty of death; we have no indication that the treasury funds had any meaningful influence on the Dance through bribery or gift-giving. Moreover, aside from "The Red Dragon and the Gold" mentioning that Otto Hightower was "strengthening the defenses of King's Landing," we have no indication the treasury funds went towards any of the maintenance costs previously discussed, like obtaining food stuffs or building ships. We're also told nothing about the tax policies of the Greens at this time, whether in King's Landing or elsewhere, meaning the impression of the 'cheapness' of Westerosi warfare is all but confirmed.

ii. Kingdoms Seven

The final problem with the 'treasury plot' and it's implications for the role of money in warfare comes down to the mechanics of the plot itself. Treasuries have been transferred in the past and we can point to historical examples: Plutarch recounts the relocation of the treasury of Cyprus to Rome in section 38 of his Life of Cato the Younger, which involved moving almost 7000 talents of silver (c. 180.6 tonnes) by ship, divided into coffers carrying 2 talents and 500 drachmas each, or roughly three talents with a third in coin and the rest in bullion. Alexander the Great seized 6613.4 tonnes of silver, gold, and other valuables from Susa, Pasargadae, and Persepolis when his army entered Iran in 330 BC, which he relocated to Ecbatana using 20000 mules and 5000 camels (Donald Engels, Alexander the Great and the Logistics of the Macedonian Army, 79). We don't know the value or quantity of the royal treasury at the time of it's relocation, but the portion sent to Casterly Rock appears to have traveled overland under guard while those sent to Braavos and Oldtown went by ship.

The foremost issue facing the plot is that Tyland Lannister only became Master of Coin because of the death of Lyman Beesbury; not only did Beesbury support Rhaenyra's claim at the very end, he was also the Master of Coin prior to Jaehaerys' death, meaning he held that post for at least 30 years. Considering Jaehaerys' ill-health in his final years and Viserys' tendency to rule through his Small Council, we can be certain that those employed by the Master of Coin would have been loyal to Beesbury even if it was the king who approved the hiring. While Tyrion's list of those under the Master of Coin's authority comes to us more than a century after the Dance (see Part One), we know that Warden of the King's Mint and Keeper of the Keys existed prior to the Dance. Based on what we know about the Keyholders of the Iron Bank, it's safe to say that Keeper of the Keys is a similar post with responsibility for accessing the vaults and coffers of the treasury. That this post would have been filled by Beesbury should present obvious problems, as even if the Greens were able to pull-off the relocation it would be nigh impossible for it to be kept secret. Rhaenyra brutally tortures Tyland in a failed attempt to locate the hidden treasury funds, but even if the Greens bribed all the treasury workers to comply, there would still be too many witnesses around who could inform Rhaenyra if they didn't tell her outright. They couldn't jail those who supported Rhaenyra as this would raise suspicions while leaving the Greens short-staffed for the relocation, nor could they guarantee that those who agreed to assist were not simply lying about their loyalties. Even if the funds could be relocated without incident or loss, there's no way that their whereabouts could be kept secret from Rhaenyra after the Blacks take King's Landing.

From the start of the Dance, the only significant fiscal 'policy' of the Greens is to deny Rhaenyra access to the royal treasury, as money and wealth play no role in their war effort otherwise. The 'treasury plot' is merely meant to lead into Rhaenyra's 'tax policy' subplot, and here is where any pretense of covering tax policy and war finance in an intelligent way falls apart. The problems with Rhaenyra's tax policy are also threefold: 1) Much like with the 'treasury plot', we're given little indication of Rhaenyra and the Blacks funding requirements prior to the Fall of King's Landing, when she suddenly has desperate need for coin; 2) While we're told she 'replenishes' her coffers through taxation and other methods, this flies in the face of information provided by F&B and a reasonable assessment of King's Landing's current position; and 3) When we take account of the resources at her disposal and what we know about war finance in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, Rhaenyra's policies come off as not just unfeasible but hopelessly contrived.

iii. "This has been my worst physical year ever!" -Bartimos Celtigar (Probably)

In light of our discussion of the 'treasury plot,' we have every reason to question F&B's assertion that Rhaenyra "found herself in desperate need of coin" after taking King's Landing. We have no prior indications of Black funding requirements and only a little about their wealth: Daemon's capture of Harrenhal gives him access to "the not-inconsiderable wealth of House Strong," while Rhaenyra "had at her disposal the wealth of House Velaryon." This is all we're told prior to the Fall of King's Landing, but their resources should be much greater starting with Dragonstone's wealth and incomes and those of Claw Isle. Gulltown's support should be a boon as well with it being one of the major ports and population centers of Westeros outside King's Landing; Isembard Arryn and the Arryns of Gulltown could also be turned to for funds, and Bartimos Celtigar has family ties to Gulltown through Prudence Celtigar's marriage to Lord Grafton in 52 AC. White Harbour is likewise a prosperous port and tied to Rhaenyra by the betrothal of Joffrey Velaryon, while she could also draw upon the great towns of the Riverlands like Maidenpool, Fairmarket, and Lord Harroway's Town.

She could also turn to the Free Cities for loans, as there should be plenty of wealthy individuals that might be induced to loan her funds, while the Iron Bank and Pentos would also be available. The Pentoshi are friendly with Daemon and the Blacks, enough for the princes Aegon and Viserys to be sent there on the Gay Abandon, so the Magisters might be persuaded to offer financial aid. The Iron Bank may have accepted the quarter of the treasury sent by the Greens, but given their reputation for secrecy there's no reason to assume they would refuse to loan to the Blacks, especially since they have a quarter of the treasury for security should the Blacks lose or default on payments. With all these potential sources of coin to fund her war effort, combined with the fact she builds no ships nor hires any sellswords, nor are we ever told of Driftmark or Dragonstone needing to be supplied with imported food, we have no reason to believe that Rhaenyra was forced to resort to the measures she did upon arriving in King's Landing. Driftmark may be worse for wear after the Battle of the Gullet, but Rhaenyra should still have other sources of funding available.

The second problem with this plot is the tax policies themselves: F&B tells us Rhaenyra was able to "replenish her coffers, at grievous cost" mostly through increased taxation, but there are serious issues with this scenario. For starters, the narrative never defines what 'her coffers' entail: we have no idea of the size of the Black 'war chest' previously, and whether the coffers to be filled are those of Viserys I (i.e. the whole treasury upon his death) or Aegon II (i.e. the quarter that remained in King's Landing). It's late autumn when Rhaenyra takes the capital, the kingdoms have been at war for a year, and the only areas that could feasibly send tax revenues to King's Landing are probably the North, the Vale, and the Crownlands, so recouping even a quarter of Viserys' treasury seems like an impossible task. Bartimos Celtigar raises these new funds by reviving the old taxes of Edwell Celtigar, reinstating Rego Draz's entry and exit tolls, and implementing new levies. Edwell's taxes, which date back to King Jaehaerys' regency, tripled port fees, taxed certain goods entering and leaving the city, and placed levies on builders and inn-keeps; Draz's gate fees were assessed on anyone leaving or entering the city, with additional fees for donkeys, horses, mules and oxen, and most heavily for carts and wagons; Bartimos Celtigar's own policies doubled taxes on wine and ale and tripled port fees, tripled the entry and exit fees previously set by Draz, introduced a property tax, assessed fees on shops for keeping their doors open, and charged a silver stag to inn keeps for every bed in their inns. The merchants trapped in the city by the Blockade were made to pay the new port duties, with those that would not or could not forfeiting their ships and cargo, while public executions demanded an attendance fee of three pennies. We're led to believe that by Maiden Day at least these policies have replenished Rhaenyra's coffers, albeit at 'grievous cost.'

The foremost problem with these policies stems from the editing of F&B; "A Surfeit of Rulers," one of the Jaehaerys chapters that were newly published in 2018, has this to say about Edwell Celtigar's taxes:

None of these measures had the desired effect of filling up the treasury vaults. Instead building slowed to a halt, the inns emptied, and trade declined notably as merchants diverted their ships from King's Landing to Driftmark, Duskendale, Maidenpool, and other ports where they might evade taxation.

This is a pretty realistic depiction of the drawbacks of heavy taxation; given how much heavier the taxes are which Rhaenyra seeks to levy on KIng's Landing, it makes little sense why Bartimos Celtigar should succeed while his ancestor failed. Driftmark and Duskendale have been damaged by the war, but there's no reason why places like Maidenpool or even Gulltown could not allow merchants to dodge the fees. Many Kingslanders fled the city when Rhaenyra attacked, meaning the taxable population has already declined somewhat and Rhaenyra's onerous policies would only cause more to flee the city. It also needs to be stressed that Draz and Edwell Celtigar's policies were drawn up in times of peace, with Draz's fees in particular drawing revenue from the increased traffic of King's Landing which stemmed from Jaehaerys' prosperous reign. Rhaenyra and Bartimos Celtigar's policies are being implemented during a war which has raged for almost a year as of the taking of King's Landing, and it's very unlikely that policies which failed at worse in times of peace would have total success in a radically different context.

Rhaenyra's policies are still unworkable when we consider factors like the war and the weather and how these would affect economic activity. Rhaenyra's port and gate fees rely on traffic to and from the city, but what markets is King's Landing supposed to rely on? Armies have been mustered in the Reach, Stormlands, Riverlands, and Crownlands, and if my hypothesis from Part Six regarding Maiden Day is correct then Rhaenyra has a little over a month depending on when she takes the capital before winter arrives. The fighting and concomitant breakdown of authority should also mean an increase in banditry, as Rhaenyra discovers when her party is set upon by 'broken men' after her flight of King's Landing, which would hamper the movement of goods overland in addition to the obstacles raised by the weather and ongoing fighting. If we consider the wine and ale taxes, the autumn and winter weather and climate combined with the disruptions caused by mobilization, fighting, and army demand should seriously affect ale production through the scarcity of grain, while ale itself would be in demand for the armies.

Wine has even more problems, since we know the bulk of wine production in Westeros comes from the south, primarily Dorne and the Reach. The Arbor and Honeywine valley are absolutely off limits since the Redwynes and Hightowers support Aegon II, while Ormund and Daeron's advances bring the rest of the Reach more and more under Green control. Imports from Dorne overland have to contend with the weather and Borros Baratheon's conflict with the Vulture King, and would be passing through Green territory besides; imports via sea must likewise contend with dangerous weather in autumn and winter in addition to the chaos in the Stepstones and southern Narrow Sea due to the Triarchy's dissolution. Wine would also be in demand for the armies of both sides the same as ale, meaning imports that reached King's Landing would demand high prices which the new fees and taxes would only increase. Providing for the sustenance of the city's population might require Rhaenyra's government to purchase foodstuffs themselves, and any revenues from taxes or duties on those imports would be cancelled out by the high prices. The only measures taken by Rhaenyra and Celtigar that are in any way feasible are the confiscations from the merchants and the attendance fees for the executions, but the former could only offer short-term relief and would discourage further port traffic.

iv. Broke-ass sibling f*ckers

The suggestion that Rhaenyra's tax policies could 'replenish her coffers' has no foundation in whatever passes for the reality of this story. The third and final problem with this plot is that the taxes themselves are completely unnecessary: when we consider the resources available to Rhaenyra in the setting and the finance methods available to Medieval monarchs, it's clear that Rhaenyra's policies are founded upon contrivance and not an attempt to explore the challenges of governing in a meaningful way. I covered this topic somewhat in Part 9 of the original analysis, but I want to do so again with greater depth; we'll start with wartime taxation, since this is an area where George's impressions differ greatly from reality.

Rhaenyra's singular reliance upon taxation obscures the fact that it was but one of a number of means of war finance available to Medieval governments. Taxation was by no means insignificant: English tax revenue raised to fight the Hundred Years' War amounted to c.£8250000, 4 million of which was derived from the wool tax (M. M. Postan, "The Costs of the Hundred Years' War," 40). Excluding c.£1.5 million paid by foreign wool buyers gives us £6750000 over 128 years or c.£53000 per year, a not insignificant sum considering revenues in the first 12 years of Richard II's reign (1377-89) were a net annual average of £120000 (Ibid., 40-41; A. B. Steel, "The Financial Background of the Wars of the Roses," 18). Wartime taxation benefitted from England's island status, as besides cross-border warfare with Scotland and French raiding and piracy along the southern coast, the war caused very little physical damage that might have reduced tax revenue or interfered with it's collection. Even then, £53000 per annum paled in comparison to the deficit and resulting debt incurred by fighting the war, which ran at a rate of £15000 per annum in 1400-25 alone and exceeded £370000 by 1449 (Postan, "The Costs," 42).

Existing means of taxation could not cover the demands of war alone, since the exigencies of war invariably required greater sums paid out in much shorter time frames than peacetime taxes could secure. France and the Iberian monarchies of Castile, Aragon, and Portugal had to frequently resort to obtaining subsidies or grants from village, town, and city governments, sending out commissioners to negotiate with and collect sums from these local authorities or calling an assembly for the King to negotiate directly (the Corts or Cortes in the case of Castile and Aragon) (John B. Henneman Jr., "Financing the Hundred Years' War," 276; Donald J. Kagay, "War Financing in the Late Medieval Crown of Aragon," 124-125). Negotiating these sums could be done in a number of ways: assemblies might be granted some oversight as to the spending of the revenues, economic and social privileges could be granted, the money could come from fines paid in lieu of military service, debts or outstanding taxes could be forgiven or pardons issued for certain offenses. This often meant that grants or subsidies took the form of loans to the crown, and thus overlapped to some extent with forms of debt financing that we'll discuss below.

This form of taxation was not unknown to England, as so-called lay subsidies or grants were called upon prior to, during, and after the Hundred Years' War, with the Commons playing a role in negotiating and approving the terms. Unfortunately we know little about town and city governments in Westeros and local government in general, but we do know that monarchs have called upon councils in the past. The Lannister succession was decided by a council after the death of Gerold III, and of course we have the Great Council of 101 AC; Aenys Targaryen planned to call a great council to settle the crises of 37 AC before those were resolved, and Alicent Hightower proposes a great council to settle the succession after Rhaenyra takes King's Landing; shortly after the Dance we have the Great Council of 136 AC, which selected new regents for Aegon III. If Rhaenyra truly was desperate for coin after taking the capital, nothing should stop her from soliciting tax funds from those subjects and allies within reach: the Crownlands, the Vale, the North, the Riverlands north of the Trident and east of the Kingsroad at least, and possibly the Iron Islands and northern Reach.

Lords and ladies, clergy, guild leaders and townsmen and/or their representatives could be assembled for Rhaenyra and her council to negotiate with, or she could send representatives to them, while Syrax and Caraxes also allow Rhaenyra, Daemon, and an advisor or two to fly out for meetings elsewhere, to arrange for tax subsidies. In return she can count these sums as remitted taxes or reduce future tax rates, gives pardons and forgive debts, and other economic and social privileges. TWOIAF tells us that towns like Fairmarket and Saltpans were refused charters by past River Kings that might have allowed them to expand; Rhaenyra could very easily grant charters to towns across her loyal territories in exchange for subsidies, or use the threat of this to induce local lords to be more generous. The complete absence of the Faith of the Seven from this plot (and the Dance in general) is striking: we know from Eddard IV of AGOT that Baelish borrows funds from the Faith, and we might assume from Aegon the Conqueror's exempting the Faith from taxation that this was not the case before the Conquest. Between incomes, donations, possibly tithes even though these are never explicitly mentioned in the books, and so-called 'church plate' or precious metals and valuables held within the septs and other religious sites, the Faith should have considerable reserves of wealth which Rhaenyra could obtain through loans or subsidies, to say nothing of how the armies of either side might plunder these for their own purposes. Regardless, collecting subsidies was a lengthy process historically and would be so for Rhaenyra, but the taxes implemented by Bartimos Celtigar won't produce a windfall anyways; she stands a better chance of raising funds sooner by negotiating subsidies than by hiking the tax rates on a single city and calling it a day.

Wartime taxation was not and could not be the only means of war finance relied upon by Medieval monarchs, and Rhaenyra should be no exception. In addition to taxes and the funding sources she should already have had access to before arriving in King's Landing, Rhaenyra can still sell assets and go into debt to finance her war effort. We should also note that Rhaenyra's strategic position after the Fall of King's Landing is much stronger than Aegon and the Greens'. The Blacks dominate the Narrow and Sunset Seas thanks to the Velaryons, the Greyjoys, and the collapse of the Triarchy; they have six dragons at their disposal, technically seven or eight if we include Joffrey and Baela; Rhaenyra controls the Crownlands and the capital, and commands the loyalty of four of the Seven Kingdoms (Riverlands, Vale, North, Iron Islands) and part of a fifth (the Reach); while Aegon and his dragon are injured and missing alongside his remaining children, his queen, mother, and council are Rhaenyra's prisoners, and as of 'the Fishfeed' only Daeron and Ormund Hightower are offering substantial resistance to the Blacks. Even with Aemond at large, winter on the horizon, and the troubles facing King's Landing, Rhaenyra and her council should be well placed to secure funds based on the realistic expectation of victory.

Rhaenyra's options for war finance are plentiful, beginning with her lands: between Dragonstone, King's Landing and it's environs, and the broader Targaryen demenses within the Crownlands (see Part One) which belong to House Targaryen legally but are managed by tenant houses (Rosby, Hayford, Massey, etc.), these alone are a substantial asset for Rhaenyra. Some of her tenants bent the knee to Aegon, namely Rosby and Stokeworth, and their lands could be confiscated for the crown or transferred to others, and she could probably also confiscate lands from those houses momentarily beyond her reach. She can raise funds from all these lands by selling, pawning, or mortgaging them, with the first means being self-explanatory. Pawning land means she would use it as security for a loan, transferring title of the land to her creditor until she repaid her debts and forfeiting them in case of default, while mortgaging would allow her to retain control of the land but she would losing it entirely in case of default. She can also sell or pawn valuables and heirlooms such as jewels, as Rhaenyra and the Blacks should have plenty to draw upon between Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle, and King's Landing itself, to say nothing of the fossilized dragon eggs that could be used to this end.

Other assets she could sell or pawn include the ships of the Royal Fleet which should be under her control since the fall of King's Landing; F&B tells us that in 133 AC the Royal Fleet comprised 8 new warships built by Tyland Lannister's initiative and some 20 older cogs and galleys, giving Rhaenyra at least 20 ships to sell or use as securities for loans. Between the Velaryon fleet and the forces Dragonstone and Claw Isle could muster, she has little need for the comparatively small Royal Fleet, especially considering that Tyland Lannister was in charge of it as Master of Ships, and the crown would be freed from maintaining the ships and their crews. Maintaining a fleet was expensive work in Medieval Europe, and selling one's ships was not uncommon: the ships of Henry V's royal fleet were his private property, and 19 of 30 were sold between 1423 and 1425 for a combined sum of c.£1200 compared to their maintenance costs of over £3100 in 1420-22, albeit Henry's ships were most largely sailing ships (C.F. Richmond, "The Keeping of the Seas during the Hundred Years War," 286-287).

Rhaenyra also has assets of a more political nature, as she can sell pardons as well as selling titles and offices within the royal government. Funds could be raised by auctioning off titles and offices, and she could also offer knighthoods or other forms of social advancement like legitimization for bastards to those willing to pay; future Spanish monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella granted privileges of hidalguía or lower nobility to volunteers during the Castilian War of Succession, meaning their new status could be passed on to their descendants rather than terminating at death (Rodrigo da Costa Dominguez & José Manuel Triano-Milán, "The Price of the Throne," 98-99). Offices tied to revenue-leasing would be particularly valuable: assuming the posts listed in Tyrion IV of ACOK are applicable to the Dance era (see Part One), Rhaenyra can sell leases to new harbormasters, tax-farmers, custom sargents, toll-collectors, and factor agents. In fact this would absolutely be in order with a new Master of Coin in Bartimos Celtigar, and with the success of the Greens' treasury plot implying that many treasury workers supported Aegon or were bribed to look the other way.

Debt financing is another option available to Rhaenyra and which we've touched on already regarding Pentos and the Iron Bank; in light of the methods Medieval governments used for war financing, Rhaenyra should be able to sell future revenues and sell rentes. The late great historian of Medieval economies J. H. Munro discussed both methods in his excellent article "The Medieval Origins of the Financial Revolution: Usury, Rentes, and Negotiability," which I strongly recommend reading. Selling future revenues means using the revenues obtained from taxes, tolls, duties, etc. for a set period of time to secure a loan; Rhaenyra could solicit loans from wealthy subjects or foreigners and organizations such as guilds or the faith, offering them, say, the revenues of the salt tax for the next decade in exchange for funds. This might involve setting aside a fund into which the promised revenues would be deposited for the creditors to access, or she might simply give them the lease for collecting those revenues and allow them to pocket the agreed funds for the stipulated period until the principal was repaid with interest. Provided payments were made, Rhaenyra's creditors could sell shares of these debts as annuities to recoup their funds; Rhaenyra could do so with the crown's own debtors, selling shares as annuities provided the debtors were still making payments sufficiently to justify the purchase.

Future revenues might be used to secure voluntary loans, but so-called forced loans were also a common form of Medieval finance; there's some similarities here with grants or subsidies, insofar as a monarch or government would exact funds from their subjects, although forced loans were generally aimed at those with the wealth to meaningfully contribute while negotiations with the government were typically part of both methods. Debt financing through forced loans emerged in Europe in the 12th Century AD, with Genoa providing the earliest example in 1149 when a consortium of the city's lenders were granted control of a compera, a consolidated fund of tax revenues used to pay Genoa's creditors (Munro, "Medieval Origins," 514). When Venice besieged Zara in 1187, the Doge financed the operation with a loan of 16000 lire in return for the creditors receiving control over the salt tax and certain house rents for 13 years; by 1264, all of Venice's outstanding debts were consolidated into a single fund which was paid out through 8 specific excise taxes (Ibid.).

Debt financing through voluntary or forced loans faced serious obstacles from the anti-usury doctrines of the Catholic Church, and the Protestant Reformation did not radically alter this situation. We don't know of similar beliefs held by the Faith, but Munro points out in his article that the anti-usury campaign encouraged the development of a different means of public finance, the sale of rentes. These originated in the Carolingian Empire as census contracts, which allowed land to be bequeathed to one party in exchange for the donor receiving an annual, lifetime income derived from the land itself (Munro, "Medieval Origins, 518-519). This evolved by the 13th and 14th centuries into rente contract as it was known in France and the Low Countries, or the Censal or Censuale in Castile and Aragon; these contracts allowed the property holder to sell the right to a fixed annual income from said property or other assets, in return for a fixed sum (Ibid., 519, 533). As a form of public finance, rentes were issued as shares from individual patrimonies (land incomes, property rents, etc.) and/or revenues (taxes, tolls, duties, etc.), paying out incomes to the rente holder in perpetuity (rente héritable) or extinguishing with the holder's death or the death of one of their inheritors (rente viagère) (Ibid., 519).

We don't know enough about land tenure and contracts in Westeros to be sure whether this method could develop there; rentes were initially issued by municipal governments but they were also issued by 'Princely' or feudal governments, albeit these were sold through the municipalities under their rule. During the 14th and 15th centuries, the Counts of Holland and Flanders and the Dukes of Brabant and Burgundy issued rentes secured against their own revenues, particularly excise taxes (Munro, "Medieval Origins," 529). More significant is the case of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, who financed the war against Grenada (1489-92) through the sale of juros de heredad or rentes which were funded by royal excise taxes (Ibid., 535). Provided the buyers were allowed to redeem their rentes for the principal they paid there's no reason in theory why Rhaenyra could not also issue rentes to finance her war effort. Between Rhaenyra's incomes and the future revenues she can offer as securities, Bartimos Celtigar should be able to sell these to lords, towns, merchants, and the banks of the Free Cities. This would allow some room for modest tax increases to ensure some payments could be made early on, but this would not require the extreme exactions resorted to in the story.

This is by no means an exhaustive list of all the historical means of war finance that Rhaenyra could resort to; she has two sons and two daughters who could be married in exchange for funds, and debasing the coinage is another albeit risky means that could have been used. Nonetheless, I hope I've made it abundantly clear that in addition to information within F&B and analysis of the setting rendering Rhaenyra's tax policy completely unfeasible, it's arguably unnecessary. Between the Blacks own resources and the means of war finance available to Medieval governments, there's no justification for the contrived writing of this plot or the 'treasury plot' for that matter. If anything, our analysis of Medieval war finance creates another problem for the story, as Aegon and the Greens should also have access to many of those methods in addition to the royal treasury and the considerable wealth of the Hightowers and Lannisters. Fortunately or unfortunately for either side depending on the circumstances, money, finance, and tax policy are in the same boat as the environment and logistics during the Dance: they only matter if they have immediate relevance to the plot. The Greens don't need the treasury and so it can be absent when Rhaenyra takes King's Landing, at which point it's absence is suddenly so relevant that Rhaenyra turns the entire city against her in the span of a month to 'replenish her coffers.' To put it another way, money is more important Doylistically, i.e. to the writer, than it is to the characters and the setting itself, i.e. in a Watsonian sense.

v. Back to the garden

This is the last time I'll put off 'fix-its,' but I want to conclude this part with a return to our discussion of George's writing approach in Part One. I'll assume those reading this haven't been living under a rock for more than a decade and will be aware of the stir created by George's question about "Aragorn's Tax Policy;" while it's a tiresome subject by this point, George has come back to this question on multiple occasions. As someone who loves both ASOIAF and Tolkien's legendarium but was introduced to LOTR first, writing this part of the analysis gave me a better sense of the point George was likely making, and also further demonstrated the advantages and flaws of George's 'gardener' style. Our discussion of Medieval war finance indicates that the ins-and-outs of tax policy and government finance are not what interests George, for better or worse. George has spoken before about how he didn't have an expansive secondary world in mind when he began ASOIAF, and even F&B only came into existence after TWOIAF when George found he had too much material for the latter work and elected to create the former. His ground-up, POV based narrative focuses primarily on the characters, with the setting being more of a stage for the characters to act upon than a world of it's own, at least initially.

When it comes to tax policy and finance in ASOIAF, the information we get is scant and not highly detailed: Eddard's POVs in AGOT give us the big scary numbers of the royal debt so that we know the dire financial straights of the government, and Dany's ADWD POVs cover taxation to some extent, but Tyrion's ASOS POVs are really the only ones we get where a character has to concern themselves with taxation and finances. Of course Cersei's POVs in AFFC involve her small council, but her chapters have far more important ground to cover than the 'inside baseball' of how she finances the 'Aurane Waters Yacht Club.' When it comes to how tax policy is portrayed through Tyrion in ASOS, a crucial factor is that we've already had two books of set up with regards to the mess he inherits: AGOT gave us the crown's debts and ACOK showed us many of the negative consequences of the outbreak of the War of the Five Kings, meaning we already have some sense of the challenges facing him as Master of Coin. Parts of King's Landing need repairs, the Blackwater Rush is a mess, the city's population skyrockets with the arrival of the Lannister and Tyrell armies who must be maintained, while Joffrey's wedding must be paid for and will guarantee more visitors. Tywin refuses to pay with Lannister gold and relations with the Iron Bank are poor; while it should raise some eyebrows that the wedding is able to take place and things are ostensibly fine otherwise, the importance of taxes like the 'dwarf's penny' lies not in how they work and what revenues they raise but how their implementation affects Tyrion as a character.

The narrow perspective of Tyrion's POV and the focus on the personal consequences he faces from the negative reactions to the taxes skirt around any questions that might be raised as to how the taxes function and whether they could actually work. This makes sense with George's character-centered approach, being less concerned with the policies themselves and more so with the characters that implement them, the reaction these policies elicit from those around them, and how this ultimately affects them at a personal level. In Tyrion's case, whatever doubts we might have about the feasibility of those policies is assuaged by the fact that we see the consequences of those policies for him, which sets up his actions later in the story. Tywin saddling him with the thankless job of meeting the Crown's demands for funds and the predictable backlash towards the increased taxes which is directed entirely at him, compounds his already strained relationship with his family and his resentment at his role in the defense of King's Landing being ignored, setting up his actions post-the Purple Wedding. The result is we see and know more about the outcomes of policies than the policies themselves and their creation, but this is made up for by the narrative showing us these outcomes and their consequences for the characters.

While Tyrion's tax policies show us the advantages of George's approach, the 'treasury plot' and 'Rhaenyra's tax policy' expose it's disadvantages. While our perspective and knowledge of the world is limited by the characters whose POVs we read from in ASOIAF, TWOIAF and F&B were explicitly written to expand the world, nor is F&B as broad and general as TWOIAF. There's also a wider cast of characters to introduce with more limited space for character development, while the POV is a chronicler who in turn juggles multiple POVs from his sources which cannot provide information through any internal monologue. The means for skirting around shallow worldbuilding or the limits of George's own knowledge are of no avail here, resulting in their exposure with such examples as the absence of soldier's wages or Rhaenyra's abysmal tax policies. Information is withheld or ignored so that desired plot beats can happen, as with Beesbury's treasury staff and Rhaenyra's finances prior to the Fall of King's Landing, leaving us with little to no set up for events within the story and no real stakes or consequences. We end up with a war in which the Greens can function without 75% of the royal treasury while Rhaenyra cannot, as the foundations of both plots contradict each other.

In the end, George set himself a task in F&B which did not lend itself to his 'gardener' approach, and so it's disappointing but hardly surprising that F&B leaves much to be desired. That being said, unlike Mark Antony I have come to praise Caesar, not bury him; I strongly believe that the Dance can work as a story without the myriad problems that plague it, and that George's vision can be maintained. Now that I've covered the 'worldbuilding' topics I needed to analyze, we can turn to the task ahead: Analyzing the Dance itself and the strategies pursued by either side. Next time we'll finally start in to those 'fix its,' so stay tuned for "Strategy in the Dance!"

[avspol]

doing a masters degree is like i submitted my assignment! so as a treat i will remove the black mold from my bathroom. and then start my next assignment

[turtlecleric]

You sigh deeply as you feel Donnie trace his hands up your spine, stopping to press gently on you shoulders. rubbing at the tense muscle there and then trailing back down to rest on your hips. pressing in on the plush flesh there with his thumbs and then the process repeats. Hes been going at this for what feels like hours. Not that you are complaining. You have been drifting in and out of consciousness at the touch. your skin feeling slightly raw but oh so good. every now and then just barely you will hear Donnie murmur something under his breath. you used to be able to make it out but you are to far gone now to care. once again you hear the murmur of his voice in the back of your head. the words clear as crystal to your ears but when you try to piece it together in your brain, fog is all that greets you. But as if on impulse you feel yourself spread your legs. the soothing touches now going lower, to skin yet to be explored. You sigh again as Donnie presses his hands firmly on your ass. kneading at the plump flesh before sliding his hands up and pressing on your lower back. his thumbs finding and soothing any tension there before sliding further down to your thighs. you feel your cunt involuntarily clench at the sensation. A faint memory of embarrassment hits you for only a moment before Donnie's voice is once again at the back of your skull. shushing you. quieting your worries. you follow the vibrato of his voice back down into passiveness. It doesn't matter that hes trained your cunt to clench by merely him touching your thighs. It dosent matter that hes currently training you to go pliant under his hands. soft and simple. Your mind and body clay for him to mold and play with . Why would you fight it? It feels good, to not have to think. just float under his touch. So the next time his hands go to rest on your thighs and you feel yourself clench around nothing, you barley notice. As if pleased Donnie hums and then you feel a finger press into yourself, you knit your brow for merely a moment before once again relaxing against the weight of Donnie's voice. Cooing you back into becoming malleable . when you obey he hums again, pleased, and you feel yourself grow wet from pride alone. You made him proud of you. He is pleased that you don't react to his touch. merely melt into it. "what a good girl you are."

Again you clench. and you are again rewarded with praise. Its the closest you have gotten to torture you think. Donnie isn't even moving the finger that's inside you. His praise and approval is more then enough to get you desperate. you want pressure on your clit. you want movement. and when you start to get excited and almost flutter your eyelids open you feel him remove the finger. You crash back down on to the couch almost like you were hit with a brick. A think wave of desperation hitting you. You wanna beg, you wanna protest but once again you are soothed through him touching your back and shoulders. The reaction almost immediate. "you almost woke up there sweetness. We cant have that can we?" you feel Donnie's breath hit the back of your neck as he leans in. again the meaning of the words are muffled by the fog clouding you, but regardless you feel yourself melt into them. "you are such a good, obedient, thing that I don't even need to touch you to have you aching for me. isn't that right?' You feel yourself nod your head. as if a puppet on a string. A doll being moved to please its master. Simple and happy to be played with. The next moment you hear a snap of fingers and a command that rocks through you. "Pleasure" And you feel yourself gasp as if his fingers are back in you. You lift you hips up to chase the phantom version of his hand entering you. and he laughs. And again gives the same command. "Pleasure." You sigh against the command as bright spearing pleasure rocks through you. You feel like a star erupting. Lightning striking every nerve in your body. You feel your heart beat quicken and his hand on your thighs then on your ass and then in you. and you immediately clench around his fingers. like that's the only think you were made to do. like that's the only thing you ever have to worry about doing.

and when he begins to fuck you open you feel yourself cry out. shaky moans plucked and pulled out of you. However that taste of delicious pleasure. the promise of the command being used again. you know better then to disobey. Your a toy. You are his toy. and god you love every minute of it.

(-stranger)